


heart's filthy lesson

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Drama, Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulless!Sam/Dean - dub-con - Either - Soulless!Sam coercing/guilt tripping Dean into having sex with him - I wan't a lying, relentless bastard wearing Dean's defenses down with oh so wrong but oh so good fucking in the end</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart's filthy lesson

**Author's Note:**

> For the spn_harcore kink-meme : Virginity/First Time - Soulless!Sam/Dean - dub-con - Either - Soulless!Sam coercing/guilt tripping Dean into having sex with him - I wan't a lying, relentless bastard wearing Dean's defenses down with oh so wrong but oh so good fucking in the end from [info]ladytiferet

 

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v163/sonnygrl/BeautifulOtherness/?action=view&current=HeartsFilthyLessonTitleName.jpg)

 

 **Heart's Filthy Lesson**

There's something to be said about living without a soul—clarity. There's no muddled thoughts or murkiness of emotion, just a straightforwardness that tends to be curt and unfeeling.

It doesn't gain you any friends.

There's something else about having no soul that doesn't get talked about too much—too much clarity. You don't sleep, you hear only lies people tell and it's tough to wind down when all you want to do is just go-go-go.

It teaches you that a solitary life will be your future.

Sam's clarity is this—he has to work with his brother, Dean. The deeper clarity he explores is—why? He recalls no ounce of emotion or reasoning from before when he had a soul and Dean is no help in that department. Dean's trapped between grimaces of disgust and looks of grief. It's a, literal, pain that permeates a room when they're together.

Sam's fine with Dean's indifference and occasional cruelty. But Dean's not fine with Sam being “temperate” to his chilled brashness. It's obvious he wants “Sam” back—his Sam. But who is that exactly? What is so special about the Sam before that makes Dean crave him so?

In the lull hours of Dean sleeping, Sam patiently waits, wide awake and thinking. He also stares, which is unnerving, but he's looking for surface clues. Having no soul—no inner compass—has stripped him of an ability to anticipate another's next move. He has to see it in order to know it's there.

It's a huge flaw because one needs that as a hunter. Well, not just a hunter but a fucking living and breathing human being.

Dean has taken to falling asleep with his back to wherever Sam may be. During the night, though, he'll change position and—in an old habit that can't be undone—he'll turn in a direction toward the second bed—Sammy's bed... and once he sees the emptiness... and that Sam sits in chairs, typing away on the laptop, his heart breaks a little more.

Lately, Sam's been doing personal, private experiments to while away the long hours. Since it's hard to figure out the bond between brothers—between Sam and Dean—he has placed himself in certain situations where he's forced a reaction from Dean. It's been, mostly, successful. Sometimes Dean'll forget this isn't his Sammy and the truth will vanish replaced by regret and silent apologies as a resolve slowly cracks at the edges. Dean doesn't know if he'll ever see his brother again, so he's trying but the effort is half-assed.

If Sam had a soul, he thinks he'd be hurt, but he's not—he fascinated.

Humans aren't complex; they are what they are and there are no in-betweens.

But the more Sam studies Dean it startles him to see such a wide spectrum of emotions and feelings.

Take for instance, the shower the other morning versus the shower that same evening. Both times Sam had been curious to what exactly Dean did during this time, so he had chosen to spy. The shower in the morning had been rather boring, save for the curvy, muscular naked shape beyond the shower curtain. There had been shampoo for the short spikes, there had been a soapy washcloth to the body and there had been little attention paid to much else. Over, done quick in five-to-six minutes. The late afternoon shower had been a completely different story.

Dean had been pissed at Sam; a reckless thing he did on a hunt that could've gotten him dead. Weird since Dean's always reminded him he doesn't care and then he does. Sam wanted to know why Dean was so confusing—does he like him or does he hate him?

“You are NOT my brother, but you walk in his skin. Respect that.”

Sam had understood the command as he needed to “take care of” his body—Sam's body—Sammy's body. But he had been distracted by Dean's undressing in that moment. In the mornings, it was a roll-over groan and a pace to the bathroom to pee. Dean will stroll out, gather his things and go shower. It's cool and impersonal. In the evenings, he was all sweaty and yanking clothing off to throw in the distance so they land on the floor. Each jolt of action was a statement of emotion.

Sam had nodded his head, narrowing his eyes because this... **_this_** —he can understand.

Dean had been down to underwear and ripped jeans; he was all bare chest, bare feet and he strutted around like a caged animal. He had been so angry or pissed or both, then had gone into the bathroom with nothing to change into. He had attempted to slam the door, but cared even less about privacy. He had wanted to wash off the day he had under the spray. If this had been morning, Sam would have opened the door on his own; this time the door was already partly open, like inviting him to watch. He does; he had been genuinely curious to Dean's further reactions.

Dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, shower curtain drawn halfway down the porcelain tub, Dean had been hunched over, drowning himself under the hot cascade of liquid. Hands braced on the tiled wall, he had made noises under breath to release the tension and anger he had felt at the end of the day. It had been minutes before Dean had picked up shampoo or a washcloth and bar of soap. There had been a long pause of gulping down water and spitting it back out. There had been a moment of a tiny laugh like a long ago memory fluttering by.

Sam had pushed out of his seat to stand at the door, watching the naked back of Dean. He had wet his hair, shoulder blades, lower muscles and tendons flexing. There had been a clench of buttocks as Dean had bent over; if Sam had stared long enough he would've seen the dangling testicles. Sam hadn't been able to move, he hadn't known why. What Sam had learned was that Dean was impressive unclothed as he was clothed and... he had considered another aspect he never thought of...

Sam only knows siblings—brothers... as family. But still he had no idea what that meant, or what it had meant to feel. Working with Samuel and his ragtag Campbell clan he had understood why they were together. They had served purpose and had gotten results. Trying to equate Winchesters with Campbells had become like night and day. It had probably been why Sam was so fascinated and distracted by Dean and this “bond” he hadn't been capable of severing from his Sammy. There had been _something more_ there... _something else_ Sam hadn't been able to touch.

Dean had poured out a dollop of shampoo and as he had washed those dirty blond strands he had arched his head backward, hands sliding down to shape his torso. They had stopped at his hips, but then they had continued on down his thighs, coming up inner thighs to cradle, then pet the flaccid length. He had dunked under the water to soak his head, combing fingers through to get every last bit of suds. He had used his bulging arms to create rivulets of water to wash down around his pubic area once he had washed off the shampoo.

Sam had watched bubbles play down the slope of bare back, then rest at the lumber spine to eventually ride down the curve or the crack of ass. It had to tickle, because Dean had sent a hand back around to let his fingertips cup along the one cheek. It had become such a slight move but had caused Sam to swallow hard, his own cock beginning to twitch to life at the subtle move.

Is _this_ the bond of closeness Sam and Dean had shared? Is _this_ what keeps Dean in his continuous spiral of grief?

With washcloth in hand, Dean had turned his back to the spray. He had closed his eyes as the heated water soothed down his back. He had started to wash his face, then upper chest; the second hand had wiped the leftover trail of soap down his body. Everything had gathered at the triangle of dark blond pubes and had dropped off the domed tip of the semi-erect cock.

Sam had been about to grab the handle, close the door when he had caught sight of Dean stroking himself. It had been a weird position: left arm bent with forearm on the wall, Dean's forehead mashed into that arm and the right hand had pumped furiously. It had been as if shame and guilt all rolled into one feeling... simply for seeking a quick release. Dean had heavily breathed, moaning and rubbing his head in the curve of his arm. He had played with and teased his cock until he eventually shot his load against the wall, over himself and down at his feet.

For Sam, that shower had been sexy-hot... tantalizing beyond words but he had only been struck by one thing... the way Dean had muttered a continual loop of “ _... sammy-sammy-sammy..._ ” Sam had actually felt a small tear in his wall, like his old self had wanted back in. He had shut the door and walked away to leave Dean in peace...

Sam had licked his mouth, biting down on his bottom lip to chew in contemplation. He had felt the same way he did with a woman. It had been strange because logic had told him to always go for the opposite sex, but there had been no reasoning for feeling this way for another man. It had to have been a dormant response from his old self—the one who had a soul and who was weak and a not-so-good hunter.

Sam's weakness is Dean and Dean's weakness is Sam. Although it has become more clear that Sam is Dean's utter destruction. No longer a simple vulnerable weakness. Sam will need Dean in the best shape possible, so he will slowly reintegrate a close bond with Dean that will appease him and hopefully make life a bit easier to handle.

He watches Dean sleep. He actually worries when Dean gets restless or seems to have nightmares. The soft, incoherent words with the added, “Sam”, often leave him intensely staring down Dean. He eyes the face a lot, but when that's hidden from view, he likes to watch the body. He still recalls the shower; he vows not to watch the evening ones anymore. It concerns him that he wants to see Dean completely naked again, but in sleep... breathing in dreams. It concerns him even more that he wants to touch that naked body... or lay against the form to see what reaction he gets.

Sam wonders if Dean can read those kind of inner thoughts on him or is he really safely hidden?

Sam pushes out of the chair to walk toward the side of—what's supposed to be—his bed. He takes a seat and becomes a little excited that he never thought to move sooner—he's so close to Dean he can reach out and touch him. He would, but it's an awkward reach. It's better if he sits on Dean's bed, so he does. But he eases down so he doesn't jolt Dean awake.

Dean's out cold. Long day... massive hunt over the last seventy-two hours. They got a lot done; the right ones were dead and they made it out alive—barely. Sam remembers pulling Dean away in time, quick reflexes saving not only Dean's life, but his own. Sam didn't know why that instinct struck him at that exact moment; it stunned Dean as well.

Laying on his stomach, Dean is face-planted between two pillows, covers are tangled over him as he's nearly spreadeagled over the mattress. Sam tilts his head, reaching out to lay his hand, palm flat, in the middle of Dean's back. This was where that spiked pole would've hit. Sam can feel the slow intake and release of breathes. He can feel the play of muscles. If he closes his eyes, he knows he can concentrate hard with blood flow and hear a heart beating. He startles from the radiating heat because his hands usually feel cold. Dean doesn't wake, simply lays there—dead to the world.

Sam slides his hand up to the back of the neck, feeling the soft hairs of freshly-washed hair. He's curious to smell, so he leans over. It's a scent that intrigues him because he thinks he should be able to easily call out the brand name. An inch or two away from skin, Sam sniffs along Dean's form and he's picking up a different sensation—a churning within from deep in his gut.

Is this instinct or memory?

Sam's not sure but he has no impulse so he acts on it. He presses lips right over where his hand sits, then kisses a trail up the spine to the nape. He stops before he actually kisses skin, but he wants taste... he craves taste. With tip of tongue, he lightly licks. When Dean doesn't stir, he lays tongue on flesh to suckle then nip. Dean grunts and swats at the back of his head. Sam catches that hand and lowers the limb back to the mattress. Dean arches his back to bump the wall behind him, but that's impossible because...

Before Dean rises and turns his head to look over his shoulder, Sam's perfectly rolled across the empty bed and plants himself in a chair in the corner of the room, reading a thick book of lore in his hand by moonlight and random street lamps. Dean is none the wiser, but Sam has controlled himself enough on the surface to belie what rages and burns within.

Dean is _his_. He _has_ to have him. One night, it's all he wants— _needs_.

But the prey must never know he's being trapped, so Sam plots while Dean sleeps...

~~&&~~

Days later, when Sam is alone on a hunt, he uses his powers. They aren't like super human powers as much as concentrated energy and focus. If Sam Winchester wants you dead, you're dead. He doesn't care how, end result will always be the same.

Dean left him to run after one being and that being, and four others, lay dead at his feet. He didn't even know if they were all good or all bad; he only knew they had sin or evil in their hearts—or whatever organ he could sense from them... what he could “see” around them.

It had almost been too easy. And Sam's not hurt, which is bad because he had planned on getting hurt in order to make Dean take notice. He looks down at his own crowbar and bloody knife, deciding that was way-too easy. But he notices that one of the extra four he killed had a gun... another had a smaller sword, like a saber...

Which to choose...?

~~&&~~

Dean comes running when he hears the shot ricochet inside the metal building. “Sam!” He yanks open the huge barn door and wanders down the row of stalls. “SAM! Answer me!”

There's a piercing screech of agonizing pain coated in, “... Deeeaaannn!...” and then nothing...

“Sam! Sammy! Talk to me! Where are you?!”

Dean stumbles upon a passed out Sam, bleeding from a wound in the lower back, around the kidney. He rolls him over, patting his body to check for other injuries. He doesn't see the burn mark on the jacket sleeve at the upper biceps of Sam's left arm. “... hey-hey-hey... Sam... c'mon... open up... wake up... c'mon... you weigh a frickin' ton, man... don't make me hafta drag you...”

“Dean!” Sam blinks eyes wide open as he lays in his own pool of blood; blood he caused by his own doing. Who knew he could resurrect the dead long enough to compel them to intentionally attack him. “What—? Am I—? I didn't see 'em... did I get him?”

Dean looks around, counting bodies. “Jesus, bro... there's, like, five here... you must've been a ragin' fiend...”

Sam's not prepared for Dean's smile, his face covered in dirt, blood and sweat—probably pieces of bones and organs in his hair. “uh, yeah... help me up...” He pretends to be weakened so Dean has to hold him, wrap an arm around his waist and use his own body for balance. Sam feels a rush to his head. Again, it's because Dean is near—he's closer than close and Sam converts inner fire to show real pain. “ah-ah-ah-ah... what—?” Sam reaches around to touch his back, bringing his hand back to look at the blood coating the skin. “... oh... I'm hurt...”

It's such a small, dumb thing, but it makes Dean snort a chuckle as he secures Sam's arm around his neck, then hooks about his waist under layers of clothes to walk him out of this rusted metal deathtrap.

On their way out, not even bothering to close the door, Sam asks, “Got your lighter?”

“Yeah... wait—here.” Dean leans Sam against some huge construction equipment, then flicks the lighter to throw it through the open doorway. Matted cloths on the ground are caked in grease and oil; they ignite and the flames simmer to a nice boil as Dean walks Sam back to the Impala. He leans him on the passenger door, but opens the backseat to clear off the bench. Mostly he just shoves things on the floorboard. He guides Sam around, hand on his head as he leans him in head first.

Sam throws himself on the seat, remembering to cry out over his wound as he rolls around and tries to fit his hulking frame back here. “I think I need stitches... this feels deep.”

“Five minutes. I'll break speed limits.”

It's nice not to hear Dean's voice dripping with annoyance or sarcasm. There's genuine concern there and Sam feels bad for all his martyring he's about to do... _kind of_...

~~&&~~

Dean manages to open their motel room door with only one hand as he's holding up Sam with the other. Sam has been alternating between being dizzy and remaining upright—Dean seems to believe he's as injured as he appears. Dean shoves the paneling wide open, dropping Sam backward on the bed, but not before he takes a tumble along with Sam. He catches himself on an arm—his right—and Sam's reaching up to counter-weight him so he doesn't land on him. Too late.

Sam puffs out a real breath of pain as Dean uses his chest to rise and stand. The minute he's back on his feet, Dean's undressing, but not before he closes and locks the door, setting the chain-lock. He takes off coat and button-down flannel shirt, leaving two-layers of mismatched Henleys—one gray, one cream; one smooth, one waffle texture. He rolls sleeves up to his elbows, then proceeds to wash his hands in scalding water, making sure to clean every inch of skin and under nail-beds. He squats in front of two huge knees and, right away, he's untying shoe strings. Two boots off and now Dean lands on one knee to reach out and grab a hand, a sleeve or a jacket lapel—anything to get Sam to sit upright.

Sam goes slightly limp, liking how tight Dean tries to hold onto him, as if he'd fall through the mattress.

“C'mon, Sam... stay awake for me... lemme...” Dean loses his grip for only a minute and he lightly snorts at the hilarity. Sam's like a limp noodle—a bloody, bleeding stabbed noodle. He latches on to the large kneecaps, spreading the legs so now he can really get a good hold on Sam. “... Sammy...”

Sam heard it—that lighthearted tone of voice where he knows Dean cares or there's an emotion riding the tail of the single word. He sits upright for Dean and maybe he'll think about waking up a little more. “... oh, gawd... it stings...” He winces appropriately.

“C'mon... help me here... I need to get you undressed...” Dean manages to get the right arm out of the coat sleeve on his own, but the left is proving difficult. As he trails a hand down the material of the sleeve, he notices the singed line on the shoulder joint—Dear God... was Sam shot too? He works double-time to ease Sam's arm out of the left sleeve, catching that the seepage has caked the shirt in a row of red droplets. Sam isn't shot—the bullet ricocheted off something then skimmed him. Dean takes a deep breath and starts to undo the buttons of the shirt. As he opens the lapels, shaping down the long, muscular torso to land at the waist, he sends hands toward the lower back. “—where's the—?”

Sam wearily directs Dean's hand—the left one—to palpate over his lower spine, just above the right butt cheek. As Dean accidentally pushes fingers in too far, Sam falls forward and crashes his head into Dean's shoulder. “... ow...”

There's another snort of laughter and then Dean gently apologizes as he untucks all of Sam's shirts. He doesn't know whether to pull them off all at once or do them one at a time. He decides he'll tug the button-down shirt off the broad shoulders, then drop the material down the arms. He throws that shirt on the floor, now considering one flourished move for t-shirt and tank-t. He pulls back an inch, looking down, and sees Sam's wearing a Stanford t-shirt—it's not a huge font, but it's enough to stop Dean in his tracks to catch his breath. He can't fault Sam for wearing his brother's clothes since they're the only clothing that'll fit him, and they are _his_ , technically.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, Sam watches Dean's face nearly crumble; the way he bites his bottom lip to stem emotions, then cups his hand over Sam's right peck. Sam's years in college feel like decades ago. He remembers the difficulty of coping without Sam and can't compare it to the feeling he has now; it's as if he lost Sam all over again. Now Dean's pissed and aloof. No more smiling or laughter; he's all work and no play. He doesn't care if he hurts Sam— _this_ Sam, not _his_ Sam—then he barks as he peels off the shirts, “Lay on your stomach. I'll be back.”

Sam knows he's lost ground. Dean could be gone from him for good if he doesn't try something clever fast. While Dean's getting washcloths, towels and hot, soapy water, Sam lays back to slowly undo his jeans—the snap and zipper—and as he's almost got the waistband down past his hips, Dean makes his way over...

“... whoa-whoa-whoa... hold the phone... I didn't request a striptease from you...”

“There's blood all down my—there's probably blood running down under my shorts.”

“So keep 'em on. I'll get you nice and clean—only so far—for the rest, you can shower on your own.”

Sam bounces his head like he'll pass out, then he rolls over on his belly. He forgets about the wound on his shoulder as he draws up his arms to fold them under his head. Dean forgot too once he saw that nasty-looking two-inch stab wound around Sam's kidney. Sam lays there, draped on the mattress and thankful he has turned his face away so Dean can't see him. He grunts and moans in pain as Dean's forceful with his washing.

“... sorry...”

Sam actually likes it, but that's just him. “Is it deep?”

“I don't think so. It seems to have stopped bleeding. I can still close it up with a few stitches.”

“You make the call.”

Dean reminds himself about Sam's left shoulder wound, so he stretches out over the naked back to wash off the blood, only to see a new series of droplets falling. “The bullet wound might need more attention.”

“Got another lighter...” Sam flips his head over, landing on his cheek. “... or some matches?”

“yeah, maybe... why?” Dean wrinkles his brow in confusion.

“Burn the flesh closed.”

“Excuse me?!” Dean isn't shocked by the request, only by how nonchalantly it was offered.

“Don't worry. I'm already in pain. It's not gonna hurt me _that_ much more.”

“I don't care. I'm not setting fire to your skin.”

“Why not?” Sam doesn't understand the reasoning behind the refusal.

“Uh... because it's not yours... it's Sam's...”

“Ah... oh-kay...” Sam goes back to closing his eyes, burying his face in the center of his arms and trying to pretend what Dean's doing to him hurts like the dickens.

“... sorry...”

“Don't be. Bygones.”

“Look... I know you're my brother—you _look_ like him, you _sound_ like him... so I'm not gonna—I miss him, is all.”

There's a long stretch of quiet. Dean cleans the back wound, rubbing anesthetic cream over it to numb the area. He's pulled out the curved needle and thick thread to do stitches. He's chosen three in a crisscross fashion—like tiny “x”-s. He covers that handiwork with antibacterial ointment, a square gauze pad and tapes all four corners. He taps Sam in mid-back. “Roll on your right side.” He wants to deal with the shoulder wound; he's rather stunned to see Sam not sleeping, but wide-eyed and very much awake. It's tough to find words to break the ice and start a conversation. Dean can't have a normal chat with Sam because _this_ Sam has none of his brother's intellect, personality or characteristics, not even one or two mannerisms, like his smile.

As he leaves the washcloth over the shoulder wound, Dean discovers it still won't stop bleeding. It's too bloody for a bandage and not deep enough for stitches. That lighter idea is pretty much the only good idea. Dean wanders over to his bags, rifles through for a spare lighter. He hates that he's resorting to this method, but he's a little pleased he can hurt _this_ Sam, even though he'll leave a scar on his brother's flesh.

The second Dean approaches, Sam crawls to sit upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He swipes the lighter out of Dean's hand, flicks the wick and sticks the flame against his skin. Dean winces, unable to look away as he hears sizzle and smells burning blood-soaked flesh. Hmm... kinky... Dean didn't expect Sam to be that sadistic, but at least he took away the guilt from Dean's shoulders.

Sam tries to hold in as much of the actual pain he feels, but then cries out in genuine agony at the feel of the flames licking his flesh. He falls backward on the bed, closing the lighter and senses a head rush with piercing anguish.

“ _... dean?... dean... where are you?... dean?_ ”

Dean takes a seat on his bed, shock on his face as he swears he just heard Sammy speaking. Sam looks like he's passed out or unconscious from pain—how was that possible? He shoots off the mattress, planting a knee down and promptly shakes Sam to open his eyes. “... sammy... jesus... I'm here... sammy...” Dean shapes one hand around Sam's head, thumb pad paying over an eye lid to see if the pupils are active. He pulls away when he thinks he sees orange flames in the hazel color. “... holy—shit!...”

Sam rolls his head around as both pain and agony have stopped and he opens his eyes to see a startled yet desperate pair of green eyes looking down at him. “... wha—? What was that?”

“I heard... something...”

“What?” Sam rises to his right elbow, leaning on the bed.

“No.” Dean shakes his head, denying Sam the right to know. It could've just been a fluke, a freak accident. “Never mind. Mind tricks, I guess.” He stands between the two beds, holding out one hand. “Sit up... we'll see how your sea legs are.” If there's any chance he can get to Sammy by using Sam... he'll watch and wait for the next chance.

Sam does sit up, then stands because he doesn't know why Dean is being so strange. Especially not telling him what had gone on only mere minutes before.

Dean strolls out from between the bed frames, standing in the middle of the room. “Think you could eat...?” He makes it to the phone, picking up the yellow pages for the local town, when he hears the slump of Sam to the floor. “Sam?” It's weird how he knows the differences, but he has been fooled too often. “Sam... come on... Sam...” He walks over to squat down to lay his hand on a cheek; he feels the intense heat radiating off skin. It has to be hotter than 98.7degrees. The flesh is pooling sweat as if near a constant source of heat. “.. sam... sam, hey... sam...” Once Dean rolls Sam, making him as comfortable on the carpet as he can on his back, he watches as eyes flutter open and arms cross above his face as if protecting the head or his body, warding off an attack.

“ _.. dean, please... answer me... dean... where are you?_ ”

All right... that time, clear as day, Dean hears Sam's voice. But now he can't see Sam's face to tell if it's real or pretend. And he wants to, he desperately needs to see Sammy's face. Cupping his hand at the top of Sam's head, combing through the long locks, he bends toward an ear. “I'm here, Sammy... I'm always here... always...” He bumps his brow against Sam's head. “... sammy... can you hear me?”

Under the raised arms, Sam comes to... and realizes _exactly_ what's going on. The flame must've triggered a connection with Sam... Dean's Sammy... and somehow he's coming through him. He wishes he had done something like this before, so he could've practiced and figure out how to actually perfect this newfangled power of his... _damn_... Thinking quick on his feet—or on his back—Sam drops his arms and pretends to pass out.

Dean reaches up to lay a hand on the middle of the chest. He lets his hand wander upward to brush along cheek and jaw. Though he feels stubble, the skin is unusually soft and warm, no longer burning. That face... so peaceful and serene... it looks like Sammy fast sleep. Dean leans over, merging brow on brow, opening his eyes to bring up both hands to trace the dearest face he's ever known. And just as he's feeling his heart expand, his wrist are grabbed and Sam—not his Sam—flips them over and out from the space between the beds, pinning Dean to the carpeted floor.

“What are you doing? What.. are you...?” Sam grimaces as he feels pin-pricks of pain in his head. He really doesn't understand _any_ of this. “What's going on? Whats... happening?”

Dean could cry as he shakes his head. “I don't know.” He has come close to having Sammy again— _so close_. “Do you feel different?”

“Tell me. Tell me what...”

“I think you're tapping into 'Sam'.”

Sam furrows his brow in perplexity. “How's that possible?”

“I don't know.” Dean doesn't know why he isn't more scared with Sam looming over him as menacingly as he is. “What are you doing differently?”

“What? I don't understand?” Sam really doesn't comprehend much. At least not with Dean under him like this, gentle shoves of a pelvis against him to loosen his hold and let Dean up. Sam sighs, averting his head, moving his hands so now they just rest on the thin carpeting.

Dean stays right where he is, liking the feel of Sam between his legs, heavy weight on top of him resting against his body. “uh... wha's on your mind? What are you thinking?”

“... you...” Sam states loudly, on an exhale of air.

Dean has sense enough to look bewildered. “Me?”

“You—and Sam.”

“What about?” Dean begins to grow a bit wary.

“I'm not...” Sam shakes his head, bringing his head back over to connect hazel eyes with green. One side of his mouth lifts in crude amusement. “I don’t understand what makes you—love...” Sam's pleased when his soft thrust against Dean's groin causes hands to hold onto his waist.

Dean darts his eyes frantically over Sam's face, not sure what's building behind those flighty eyes. “You don't know the concept of 'love'?”

Sam appears to be coming back fully into his own mind. He has Dean exactly where he's wanted him. “It's a feeling. I don’t have those.”

Dean's growing a little peeved, because it sounds like Sam wants to blame him. “So why do you stay here?” He balls his fists on the carpet, about ready to push them against the chest wall above him.

“What?” Sam laughs inappropriately; it wasn't funny as much as ironic. He wants to know why Dean stays with him.

“With me? Why do you stay and hunt with me?”

“Because we're family.” Sam throws out a pat answer, knowing it's not going to satisfy Dean.

Dean shoves Sam off him, climbing to his feet. “ _You_ —are not my family.” He growls and barks over his shoulder, not bothering to notice that Sam has swiftly gotten to his own feet. “You... aren't even my brother.” As Dean turns his back to walk away, he's suddenly snatched by the wrist, tugged backward to spin and then thrown against the wall—face first. “—ugh! What!—” His arm is twisted behind his back, pushed against his spine. Dean's pinned to the plaster, left cheek flat to the surface.

Sam leans into an ear. “You keep lying to me. Your feelings for Sam run deeper than just—a simple brotherly love.”

“... **_shut up_**...” Dean speaks out from scrunched lips.

“You love him. You're _in love_ with him.”

Dean tries to push backward, but finds no resistance from Sam. Fucker's strong as steel. “... **_shut the fuck up_**... **_I'll kick your ass_**...” The threat is weak, but he throws it out for good measure.

Sam rests his head on Dean's nape, rubbing skin and hair on skin and clothing. “I see you—touch yourself...” Lips have trailed up the shirt material to glide over skin on the neck and then remain an inch away from the curve of an earlobe. “—an' you cry out his name...” Sam can still picture that moment in the shower. “... my name...”

“... _stop... please, stop_...” Dean closes his eyes, now resorting to begging as he knows he has secretly been watched.

Sam spins Dean around, using his right forearm on mid-chest to hold him against the wall. “How long?”

“huh?” Dean's weakening; this Sam looks too much like Sam... it's crushing him...

“How long have you loved him like this?”

“I don't know.” Dean shrugs one shoulder. “—forever, I guess. I never acted on it.” He averts his gaze as he leans his head on the wall, showing off a stretch of pale neck.

“Why?” Sam softens his tone, loosen his arm to stand straighter. His eyes flit to the neck, catching veins and tendons. He wants to taste again. He licks his lips to moisten the skin.

“Because...” Dean lets out a deep sigh. “... I'm no good for him.”

Sam swallows hard, not prepared for that kind of an answer from Dean. “You're no good _without_ him.”

“I know.” Dean lifts both eyebrows, shaking his head. “I didn't know it was possible to miss him this much...” He stretches out a hand to brush fingers lightly over Sam's dangling arm—the left one that was injured. “—to have him—you—but still get my heart broken.”

Sam looks away, then back as he drops his arm, placing hands on hips. “I can help you.”

“How?” Dean snorts out a dry laugh.

“I can give you Sam—your Sam... the way you want...”

Dean isn't sure he understands this completely. “You mean—” He points between their chests, his eyes darting toward the bed.

“Yes. _Exactly_ what you think I mean. I want you...” Sam lets his gaze trail down Dean's body as if admiring him from afar, but now up close, able to touch him the way he wants— _needs_. “... I want you to be able to keep your head clear, start focusing on the jobs and stop lamenting over Sam's soul...”

Dean crosses arms over his chest, grabbing onto his biceps. “—an' you'll graciously give me some half-assed attempt at Sam... with no feelings, no emotions, no heart?” He shakes his head adamantly in disagreement. “No thank you...” He pushes off the wall and walks away slowly. “... go fuck yourself...”

Sam yanks him back, five-finger pinning him to the wall. “Kiss me...” He struts up to Dean, hips jutting outward. “... an' find out...”

“huh?”

“You heard me.” Sam notices Dean licking his lips. “Kiss me.” His eyes never leave that mouth. “Kiss me how you've fantasized kissing Sam...” Sam moves closer, forearm now planted on the wall beside Dean's head. “... I promise you won't be disappointed.” He drops his head, lips skimming the curve of the shoulder joint, moving up the shoulder to the neck.

“This... is so wrong...” To Dean, it feels like cheating on his brother. Weird.

“I know.” Sam traces open lips up the neck, along jaw and cheek to rest on sideburns. “—but it'll start to feel right eventually.” He drops his arm, backing away as he holds out both hands toward Dean to beckon him to follow—or grab hold of hands so he can drag Dean with him to the bed. “... come here...”

The soft command is entrancing... Dean slowly approaches, but he doesn't take the hands. He watches them fall back to Sam's sides. Dean acts a bit shy, nervous, but he's aroused and eager. Sam's always been his perfect fit, in every way—no matter what age. The huge body tends to overshadow him now, making him feel smaller, like a delicate flower. Sam bends his head low, long bangs dangle over his forehead; he looks like he'll collapse on Dean's shoulder. Dean lifts his hands for palms to slide over flushed cheeks as Sam cranes his neck; he can't wait any longer... he takes Dean's mouth under his, walking them back to the wall. It's the closest surface to rest on. Sam braces one hand, then two on either side of Dean as he rubs against Dean's palms on each cheek. He drops one hand to undo Dean's button-fly as his fingers disappear to delve under tight briefs.

Dean pulls back to breathe when he feels the large hand wrap around him, stroking, the thumb pad playing with the pre-come at the tip of his cock. He latches on to Sam's forearm, to his right, and begins to thrust along with the hand's slow motions. “... _sammy_...” Dean lets out on a guttural whine, near begging.

Sam silences Dean with more kisses, this time munching and biting, some licking. He didn't know kissing his brother could be this intoxicating, or Dean so god-damn responsive. He moves on from the mouth to cross over cheek, then along jaw and down throat; he's pulling at Dean's shirt collar, wishing he were more naked. As Dean brings his head off the wall, pushing away from Sam for a bit, he reaches behind him, over his head and tugs at his Henleys, taking them off rather effortlessly. Sam stares at the heaving bare chest, the pert dusky nipples and he goes right back to where he left off, advancing down Dean's chest to lock around one nipple, then the next. One hand plays over the tattoo drawn on the skin that's exactly like his. Dean whimpers out his pleasure, not knowing what to do with his hands so he grabs onto Sam's broad shoulders—being tender with the left one.

As lips trail down the center of Dean's chest, Sam falls to his knees, yanking at denim and tight boxers. Dean watches that dark hair against his skin, lifting up one hand to pet through the silky strands. His throat catches and his heart picks up pace as he's finally completely naked with Sam at his feet, willing to service him. He's afraid to look into the eyes for fear he'll just see them dead, like the way they've been for months now. Dean isn't sure if he can do this without knowing Sam is totally there... inside his own body.

Sam glances up from his kneeling position, resolved this isn't going to go the way he plans because this “love” that rests in Dean—for his little brother—is untouchable... unreachable. He slowly rises from the floor and looks intently into Dean's face, especially those eyes that avert from his gaze. He brings up a hand, caressing Dean's cheek, then throws one arm around Dean's shoulders; the other arm comes around to lock about the elbow of the first. This is one of those hugs he's seen other people do. He's felt Dean's arms before, when they first met after a year apart—those arms had been tight and sturdy. Sam squeezes Dean close, bringing his half-clothed body against Dean's nude one. It's strange to feel the same tight embrace given back to him, but he stays still and absorbs it.

“... sam...”

Sam understands a little better, but not much. He now knows what he has to do. So he shuts his eyes and he—he can't really explain how he does it, but it's exactly the edge he needs to get Dean to comply with his wants— _his needs_.

“ _... dean?... dean?_ ”

Within their tight embrace, Dean hears that familiar tone again. Immediately, he draws back to look up into Sam's face. He sees _it_. He sees _everything_ that tells him his Sammy is back—if only momentarily to appease his own heart and soul. “God...” Fingers flutter down Sam's cheeks to land on the upper breastbone. “... I've missed you... you have no idea...” The heart beat is frantic, yet steady and strong.

“... dean...”

“hmm?” Dean closes his eyes to lose himself in the best fantasy he could've conjured up. He doesn't care.

“You're naked.”

“Yes. I am.” Dean replies as if it's a “thing” they normally do.

“—and I'm hugging you— _close._ ”

“I can explain.”

“I sure hope so.” Sam smirks, hazel eyes alight with excitement. “I miss you too. I'm not—well, you know... it's pretty gruesome down there, where I am. Not gonna lie to you...” He sighs and rubs a lone finger over Dean's cheek.

Dean's just amazed the likeness to his Sammy, even if the no-soul Sam is playing a nasty trick on him. He feels like time is short, so he needs to speak now or forever hold his peace. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“No. Not just love of one sibling to another. I love- _love_ you.”

Sam smiles broadly, nodding his head in easy acceptance. “Oh...”

Dean's flabbergasted there isn't more of a reaction of shock or disgust. “What? You aren't going to say something more?”

“Like what?”

“Anything but 'oh' would be nice.”

“... 'I love you'...” Sam says the three words like they're a question.

“Nah, see...” Dean gently shoves Sam away from him. “... that just sounds contrived and not at all—”

Sam snatches Dean at the back of his nape, dragging him close to kiss him hard to silence him. He keeps his forehead on Dean's as they pull away. “I know what you mean... and I know what I mean...” He lets his fingers trail down Dean's bare arms, coming around to rest on the bare chest. “... why don't we see if we both mean the same thing...” Sam takes Dean's hands, back-walking him to the bed. He stops when the back of his calves hit the frame; he drops the fingers so he can lower his own briefs and jeans, stepping out of the legs to kick the material away.

Neither man drops their eyes off the other to look down at their cocks.

Sam sits on the mattress, reaching out for Dean's fingers. Dean allows himself to be drawn in, one knee placed on either side of Sam's thighs as he straddles the lap.

“Well...?” Sam runs his hands up Dean's naked back.

Dean lifts a curious eyebrow. “How long?”

“huh?”

“Have you always felt this way about me?”

“Always?” Sam shakes his head. “I don't think that's accurate. I think there was a time I thought of you as brother-mother-father all rolled into one.”

“mmm...” Dean rests his forearms on Sam's shoulders, adjusting himself to sit more comfortably. He feels Sam's erection under him, while his own brushes against Sam's abdomen. “... I'm a bit tough to define, aren't I?”

“Yes, but that's what's almost excusable. While, yes... you are my brother, you are also so much more to me... don't think I could find your equal.” Sam's shaping Dean's torso, watching his hands play over bare flesh as if he's been wanting this for years.

“Me either.” Dean watches as Sam leans forward and he lays his head on top of the dark brown hair. “I'm not sure I want anyone, if I can’t have you.”

They're folding into one another.

Sam slides his cheek along Dean's chest to relax on the left breastbone. “Have you ever—?”

“—done this before? No. Never.

“So...” Sam pulls away to smile up at Dean. “... I'm your first?” He actually sounds proud of that thought.

Dean can't help but return the smile, nodding his head. “I guess you will be.”

“Any preference to position?”

“Nah... I would like to see your face, though.”

“Lube? Or will you be all right with... improvisation?”

Dean motions with his head. “Go check my bag. I might have something we can use in the side pocket.” He climbs off Sam, then crawls on his knees toward the headboard.

“Don't go anywhere... I'll be right back...” Sam is thankful for the moment to himself. As he wanders to Dean's bags, he can't help the natural warmth that pours out, making him smile. He was finding it tough to shake “Sammy”—he's perfected the persona too well it feels like it is _exactly_ who he is—way-deep underneath. Finding the small pump tube, he turns back around to walk over to the bed and realizes he's able to live out a fantasy of his own—Dean fully naked on the bed, only “looking” like he was sleeping. Sam throws down the tube, near the pillows, poising one knee to start crawling over to Dean. He takes one ankle then the other, spreading the legs wide. He advances on the mattress, nearing Dean to put a thigh on either side of him. He looms above Dean until he finally sees those green eyes open. “You okay?” He almost slipped, having to clear his throat.

“I am now.” Dean locks arms tight around Sam's neck.

“How do you feel?” Sam runs one hand down the side of Dean's frame, resting on the shape of a hip.

“... a little scared... but, you're here...”

That almost does Sam in, when he nearly breaks Dean out of this “spell” of thinking he was about to fuck his Sammy. Sam stretches out a hand to cup Dean's cheek, kissing him tenderly and beginning to thrust against the pelvis beneath. Dean starts to move as well: hands gripping Sam's arms and legs locking about the trim waist. Tracing that hand between their bodies, Sam's palm is large enough to engulf both their lengths and soon they're keeping the same pace. Once their bodies kept time, Sam slides his hand further down, cupping the scrotal sac, tugging and massaging each testicle. He is rather pleased when the ass lifted higher off the bed, widening the gap to display the anus. He traces a finger along the perineum, slowly rubbing over the sensitive skin. Dean arcs off the mattress, making soft whimpering noises like he needs pleasure fulfilled or he'll die.

It's tough for Sam to concentrate, to focus on several things at once because he keeps going back to needing to look into Dean's face. He finds the striking features distracting; lost in bliss and ecstasy, they're near-breathtaking. It's awful easy to lose himself. To avoid this, at the moment, Sam rolls Dean onto his stomach, making sure to promise they would return to the missionary position once they both near orgasm. On his knees, Dean offers out his backside, playful at first but gradually he gets lost in the euphoria. Sam latches onto the hips, steadying the body as his hands split apart the cheeks. He kisses a trail from tailbone down the crack and ending at the sphincter.

Taste. The taste is heady and stimulating as he licks the puckered sphere, then takes the tip of his tongue to play at insertion. Dean pushes back, wanting more. Sam kisses along the bottom, up the back, shaping the muscular torso with his hands. He bit between the shoulder blades, then laps at the nape. Eventually he buries his face in the hair, aligning his body over Dean's. They fit—near perfect. It's Dean who rolls to his left side, sending a leg backward to hook around Sam's lower limbs. Sam sends a hand down he chest wall to take the erect cock in his grip, yanking and tugging as they continued to bump front to back. Sam quickly flips onto his back, bringing Dean with him; he straddles Sam, backside connecting right at the groin below. Sam grabs for lubrication, slicking up his length and wiping excess along the gaping crack. He sticks one finger in, then two... not sure that Dean's body will accept him as easily. Dean seems determined to try.

Pitching forward, holding onto Sam's legs for leverage, Dean lifts his body while Sam guides his length to slide along the split as the tip rests at the entrance. Inch by slow inch, Dean lowers himself onto the cock; he hand reaches back when he feels resistance. Hoping he helps some, Sam thrusts forward, that last inch, eyes wide and a bit dazed to see he's inside Dean. The tightness clenches hard around him, so hard he almost comes. Dean isn't moving as he allows for his body to adjust to the feel of the thickness filling him. Sam begins to roll his hips; it's starting to become unbearably painful. He wonders if it's the same for Dean.

A little over time, Dean moves, slow at first then he picks up speed. Sam is too lost in his own private suffering, he doesn't hold onto Dean to keep him steady or in place. Dean's able to spin himself around, facing Sam. And it's like a cold splash of water in the face when Dean figures out he's been played. Sam was not _his_ Sammy—had he ever been or was this all some elaborate illusion? Dean's wildly mad and extremely pissed, but he can't deny how good this feels. He's needed some type of release from the stress and tension... the grief and loss... but once he's able to wade through his own blind rage, he notices how uncomfortable Sam looks. He attempts not to care, but he does. He can't deny it any longer. This Sam might not be his brother, but he's Sam in every other way but the right one. Dean leans forward, pinning wrists to the bed. This feels too damn good to stop. He might hate himself in the morning, but Dean will seek out his own pleasure—this Sam be damned.

As he continues to ride the cock, Dean wrinkles his brow. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know.” Sam keeps pistoning upward. “—this feels... _different_.”

“We're men... I'm not a woman...” Dean thinks it's all a physical thing, not an emotional thing.

“No, no... wait...” Sam actually wrinkles his forehead, which causes Dean to slow to a pause. “—'m not talking about the obvious. What I mean is...”

Dean almost loses his composure when his brother's hazel eyes look back at him with doubt and worry. It dawns on him that no-soul Sam is warring within to not feel or feel. And it wasn't just the sexual pleasure bewildering him. “I think I know. No more games. And no more of _these_ nights. Our first and last time doing _this_.” He declares the rule in one single breath, not sure he believes it himself.

Sam reaches out to hold onto Dean's hips. “I'm sorry... I was—curious to why you love Sam...” His face contorts in pain that spirals instantly into pleasure. “... to such distraction. He really is your weakness.” He speechless with understanding.

“No more. Next time you want answers... just ask...”

“... 'kay...”

Dean averts his head, like he's ashamed, hiding his face in his biceps as he counter-thrusts every move Sam gave. He starts to weaken, needing to use Sam's chest to prop himself upright. A single arm about Dean's waist, Sam rolls them one final time. Dean lands on his back, arms akimbo and head lulling on pillows. His arms reached up to grab plushness and bury his face away. Sam braces his hands on the mattress and as he slams in and out of the warm cavity, he feels pleasure awash over him as he finally comes in a continuous stream of semen. There are a few drops left as he feels the anal walls milk him, then eventually Dean releases his own orgasm, grappling for a hold of bedsheets. Still lost in his own release, Sam takes Dean's hands and places them on his face. He kisses the palms and wrists as he moves inside the rectum to drain Dean of every last drop.

Sam pulls out, shocked to see he was still semi-hard and coated in his own juices. He rests on top of Dean, now braced on elbows and forearms, still laying between Dean's thighs. He wants to go another round, but he's already promised Dean they won't do this again... he'll wait to see how long that decision lasts. Sam lays his cheek on Dean's chest, closing his eyes to feel the frantic heart beat and deep breathing. He turns his head to kiss, using his tongue, licking away perspiration. Tucking hands under Dean, he trails up the center of the chest, nipping at the collarbone then up the neck. He senses Dean moving, feels the body reawaken, one arm lifts to place a hand on Sam's back. Sam uses his head to push away the pillows, trying to dig out Dean so he can see his face. When green eyes finally look back at his, he sighs and has sense enough to avert his eyes downward.

“I'll agree—no more games. It's not fair for me to use what I can do against you. To hurt you. That wasn't my intention. My intention, at first, was to learn about your true bond with Sam... why you're so damn attached at the hip to him. Especially for you. You're more like me. It doesn’t make sense that you would—but I suppose that's the complexity of humans... their contradictions.”

Dean isn't ready to hear this right now. “... _stop_...”

“No. Let me finish. I told you that wasn't my intention, at first. Now—or during this time I was inside you...” Sam traces his hand down Dean's body, feeling him shiver. “... I felt conflicted. I felt pain... not from fucking you, but _here_...” He places his hand over Dean's heart, or in the vicinity. “I'm still Sam, in every way except the one you need. But for a brief time, I felt **_it_**.” He lifts his eyes to lock with wide green ones staring at him, silent and looking pensive.

“Felt _what_?”

“Sam's love for you.”

Dean grumbles, pulling out from under Sam and flipping over onto his side. “You used me... tricked me.”

“And you didn’t use me?” Sam smirks sheepishly. “Thinking I was really Sam, sprung from Lucifer's cage.” He traces a finger down Dean's back, watching the skin flinch and move simply because he was touching Dean in the aftermath of an intense orgasm.

“You mimic him well.” Dean plops onto his stomach, crossing his arms to lay his head down. “I'm the one you _can't_ fool.”

“But you fooled me too.” Sam drags his body to sit upright, leaning to the right as he plants a hand on the side of Dean to hover above him. “Your bond with Sam is more about souls than just hearts.” Sam looks down at Dean's bare skin, caressing the softness. “I have his heart, it beats for him while he's gone away.”

Dean doesn't like Sam touching him so intimately. “Just fuckin' spit it out!” He sits upright, tucking his legs to his body, as close to the headboard as he can get and as far away from Sam as he can be on the same bed. “What are you trying to say?”

Sam doesn't know why Dean is so upset; he got what he wanted. Dean acts like he didn't get the release he was looking for. Why wasn't that enough? “I'm saying...” He laughs outright, shaking his head. “... well, for the first time, I'm not sure what I'm saying because I just don't fucking care.” Sam catches Dean's flinch, like he's hurt. “I can't afford to care. Our work is too important to add all these foolish emotions and feelings into the mix.”

“They aren't foolish. They keep us alive and help us survive.” Dean folds his arm over his stomach, leaning back on the headboard. “They keep us from doing fool-headed things like throwing ourselves in front of danger.”

Ah!... now Dean was back to the “silly, idiotic heroic” things Sam did in their hunts. “... and so goes the epic love story of Sam and Dean...”

Dean stares deadpan. “Don't make fun of me.”

“I'm not.” Sam thinks Dean looks kind of sexy when he's pissed. “I think I respect and admire you more.” He decides to start moving off the bed; he sits off the side of the mattress where Dean isn't. “Don't worry. I won't let _this_ happen again— _what we did tonight_. If you want... I could make you forget it ever happened.” Sam isn't even aware if he has that kind of power. “But I think I've gotten to know you well enough to imagine you like this kind of sorrow weighing you down. I'm sure you want to keep it forefront in your mind so you can brood and mope over it.” He pats the bed, right next to his hip. “Just know this, I'll do whatever you want, but I won't be your emotional punching bag. You want Sam back? You want his soul back?... you have my permission to do whatever it is you need to do to procure it. In the meantime, I'm here... _I am Sam_... deal with it... and move on.” Sam stands, in all of his naked glory, not caring that he was still showing his semi-hardness rather openly. “I will be whatever you ask me to be, even if you want me to do _this_ with you again.”

“I won't. _Never_ again.”

“Never say never, Dean.” Sam walks around the motel room, picking up all their discarded clothing. He goes over to Sam's bag, pulling out underwear and pajama bottoms. He strolls easily into the bathroom, half a smirk playing over his face. He turns on the shower knobs, looking for a hot shower to clean himself. Sam pulls the gauze and tape off, showing a fully healed, dissolved-stitched wound. The one on his shoulder healed as well. He opens the shower curtain, then walks into the tub. He begins to wet his body first.

The shower curtain is moved back, Dean climbing in to push Sam out of the way to hog the spray.

“Hey!” Sam is a little outraged.

Dean winks and smirks. “I'm older, prettier... an' I have a soul...”

Sam nods his head and actually laughs genuinely. “I'll help you, if you want.”

“Sam. I'll help you get his soul back.”

Dean raises one curious eyebrow. “What? Not havin' fun anymore?”

Sam soaps up his hands. “I'm too reckless. I don't know how I'd be if I kept doing this longer.” He hands the soap to Dean. “I have the care and keeping of _his_ body. Probably a good thing if I don't get dead.”

Dean sees the healed scar on Sam's shoulder. He reaches over to touch it. “You did _that_?” It isn't red or inflamed any longer.

“uh, yeah...” Sam glances down at Dean's fingers caressing him. “... sorry.”

“No, no... that's cool.” Dean spins Sam around to notice the healed stitches. “Awesome. Like a super power.”

“I don't know I can do them until I do them.”

“Is there more you can do?”

“Yes. Mostly out on cases, though.”

“Like...?” Dean is actually interested.

“I guess I'll need a hunt to find out.”

For a minute, Dean goes still. He discovers what Sam's saying. “I'm not tired.”

“But it's...”

Dean shrugs both shoulders. “—and you don't sleep.”

Sam furrows his brow in wondrous thought. “You don't mind hunting this late?” It has to be close to midnight.

“You take the lead. I'll... be your lookout/sidekick.”

“You sure?” Sam doesn't want to take a case they can't solve in the same amount of time they would if it was regular daylight hours.

“Why are you so shocked?”

“Because... what's to stop you from setting a trap for me?”

“ooo... indeed. I suppose you'll just have to learn to trust me.”

“I don't even trust myself.”

“I'll teach you.”

“Teach me?” Sam frowns with a bit of worry.

“How to be human without a soul.” Dean gives out a small, sad smile. “You said it yourself, you and I are alike in many ways... I'm sure there's plenty I can teach you.” Moving the curtain aside, he walks out as fast as he walked in.

Sam stands there under the spray, utterly confused but now even more curious to what could be in store for him in the weeks to come.

 **~*~the end**


End file.
